


Burning The Horizon

by SociallyIneptDork



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caleb Widogast Deserves Nice Things, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Escape, Fjord (Critical Role) Has Issues, Fjord-centric, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Caleb Widogast, Not Canon Compliant, Orc Culture, Orcs, References to Illness, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Whump, abduction- freeform, kindness where you don't expect it, mentions of nonsexual slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:18:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociallyIneptDork/pseuds/SociallyIneptDork
Summary: Fjord knew the feeling of the ground beneath his feet, the air in his watering eyes, the feeling of his legs pumping beneath him faster than he ever thought possible.But this time is different. He isn't running alone. There's a bundle in his arms and he can't put it down, couldn't replace it as he'd done with his entire identity, couldn't forget it like he could file down his tusks and nails to forget they existed.-An artifact has unforeseen effects. Now Fjord has to deal with a child that needs him and there are enemies around every corner.





	1. Run, Boy, Run

The white light ebbs away a few seconds later, and when Fjord opens his eyes, there's a very clear lack of goblin. The weird trinket they'd been fighting for had been left behind.  
  
Yet there's a more concerning matter.  
  
Caleb.  
  
Where's Caleb?  
  
A pile of clothes is left where Caleb... Where he was-  
  
_Bleeding. Alone on the floor._

Shit. Oh fuck.

 _Your fault. All your fault, fucking moron._  
  
Caleb touched the goblet.  
  
_The white light killed him and now he's gone, gone gonegonegonegone-_  
  
A shifting in the clothes brings Fjord out of his morbid thoughts, and he readies his falchion at his side, just in case. The clothes shift again and a head of bright red hair peeks from out of the place where Caleb's face should be. Then the shifting bundle turns to face him and Fjord dismisses his falchion, knees almost buckling at the sight.  
  
Caleb. A _young_ Caleb, sure, but this shifting bundle is Caleb for sure. Those blue eyes and red hair would be enough to convince Fjord, but the small scar on the side of his knuckles and the blood staining his bare chest makes it sink in. Caleb eyes him for a second, then looks around him, fear obvious on his face.  
  
“Caleb? Do you remember me?” Fjord finds himself asking through the shock, kneeling down in front of the scared little boy. Gods, he's tiny. He can't be more than 7, maybe about 3 to 5 years of age.  
  
Caleb's eyes shoot up to meet his own, then he looks down at himself and looks around himself with desperation. “Nott... Where's Nott?”  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh no.  
  
“Nott is back at camp. Come on, we should walk and meet the team back at the agreed point. Beau and Yasha are probably waiting already.” He extends a hand, helping the boy stand on his feet. “Can you walk?”  
  
Caleb nods absently, eyes still full of confusion as if he's pulling at memories and trying to keep them from flying away. “Fjord... You are Fjord.” The question in his voice makes his hesitation about that fact clear.  
  
“Yeah,” Fjord says, trying to ignore the sting that Caleb seems to almost forget him for a second. He lifts Caleb into his arms and grabs the clothes that were too big to fit properly from the floor, shoving them into his pack. “Are you still you inside your mind?”  
  
The silence is answer enough.  
  
-  
They walk for around an hour, finding no trouble from any stray beasts or goblins or anything of the like. Caleb stays in his arms throughout it, keeping a careful eye on his surroundings. Fjord tries to busy his thoughts while walking, trying not to think about the way that Caleb had slumped to the ground after a well-aimed shot, the way that Caleb's blood had pooled around him, about the way that the trinket fit in the palm of Fjord's hand and the white light filled the room with burning energy.  
  
About the way that when he opened his eyes, Caleb was a child still stained in his own blood.  
  
The forest that they tread through is not a peaceful one. Every few seconds, Fjord hears some beast or another on the edge of his hearing, far but not too far not to be a problem if they go closer. He tries to walk faster in the face of this, not having any other choice unless he wants to go around the forest and take a day longer than needed.  
  
Still, he could feel eyes following him as the sun begins to dip lower into the horizon. There's a fight coming and he _doesn't want to fight._  
  
A whisper, soft, pressed to the red curls of Caleb's head. “Caleb?”  
  
“Ja?” responds the kid, equally as soft.  
  
“Can you still do your magic? Your spells?”  
  
Caleb is silent for a long few seconds before he snaps his fingers, four balls of light moving around them slowly, surrounding them in light in the darkness. “Ja.”  
  
Fjord heaves a sigh of relief. “Okay, well... I really don't want to say this, but I have a feeling you might want to review them right now, just in case.”  
  
-  
  
Running.  
  
Fjord is not unfamiliar with running. He's been running for a long, long time, after all. One cannot spend their life running and not be familiar with the trembling beat in their chest that told them they couldn't stop if they wanted to live. One couldn't run and not know the ache that came with it like one might know their lover.  
  
He'd run from his tribe. A weak little nothing that saw his mother carved up and turned on his heel and packed his clothes the first chance he got. He got away because nobody cared. He got away because his father watched him go and declared him dead.  
  
He got away because he was worth more gone and dead than present and alive. _One less mouth to feed,_  his father said. _Weakness cut from the tribe._  
  
Fjord knew the feeling of the ground beneath his feet, the air in his watering eyes, the feeling of his legs pumping beneath him faster than he ever thought possible.  
  
But this time is different. He isn't running alone. There's a bundle in his arms and he can't put it down, couldn't replace it as he'd done with his entire identity, couldn't forget it like he could file down his tusks and nails to forget they existed.  
  
So he runs.  
  
There is only a second of hope they'd gotten away when the first orc rushes in front of them, weapons at the ready, teeth bared.  
  
Then more. Around them on all sides, four of them in total. The one in front of them regards them, his golden eyes squinted at the half-breed and his trembling companion, whom he set down on the ground. Fjord squares his shoulders, steeling his eyes as he'd done so long ago, and he opens the door in his heart that he had kept under lock and key for decades.  
  
He hits the ones to his left and right with an eldritch blast, sending the one on his left to the ground and the one on his right clutching to a tree for support, flinching away from Fjord. While he does this, Caleb moves his hands and casts a firebolt at the one in front of them, leaving a pile of ashes that scatter in the breeze.  
  
Silence.  
  
Nobody moves.  
  
Fjord's ears ring with the silence that follows. It engulfs the entire forest, it seems, and not even an animal makes a sound. The smell of burnt flesh and crackling energy fills Fjord's nose, burning on its way into his lungs and making his eyes sting.  
  
The two remaining orcs visibly falter, stepping back.  
  
_“Who are you?”_ the one behind them asks in orcish, hand still on his greataxe. Fjord recognizes this tactic. This is not a question, it is a negotiation. Caleb, beside Fjord, keeps the fire in his hands, staring at the orcs with distrust, ready to send another bolt of fire should they attack again.  
  
_“I am Azki the Blood-Born, the son of Odorr the Fiend-Slayer,”_ Fjord responds in the same tongue, turning to face the one who spoke. He watches their faces morph into one of surprise and horror as they realize who he is, who he is born to, their hands moving away from their weapons ever so slightly.  
  
_“Ah. You have some very good blood in you, but you are very far from your tribe. Why is that so?”_  
  
Another opening, another hope that Fjord would make a mistake.  
  
_“I want to spread my name like it is a plague and burn everything that stands in my way so that the people will not forget their place. I seek land and trophies.”_ He gestures to the child beside him. _“This one is one of the first trophies I've acquired. He is small but strong enough not to kill just yet.”_  
  
The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth like blood, but the ones staring at him give him a nod as if he'd passed an interview. The one still unharmed nods and speaks in Common. “You are strong, but you have killed two of our own. Your pet has brought harm to one of us. We will welcome you into our tribe, but do not forget that you will be there as a guest.”  
  
“I carved weakness from your tribe and showed your leader that they are too slow to win a combat against a half-breed and a worthless human. I will take what I deserve for my victory.”  
  
A smile, toothy and open, is the response he receives for the statement. Fjord only hopes that Caleb can play along for long enough to keep them from being tied up and shoved into a burning hut.  
  
-  
  
The orc that took him in is called Tixhel and he gives the cabins of the slain orcs to Fjord to use unless if the leader decides otherwise, though the meeting will have to wait until tomorrow afternoon. Fjord eyes both of the cabins as they enter the camp and decides on the larger one immediately.  
  
The orcs eye Fjord as he walks into their camp, covered in blood that isn't his own and walking beside a human's offspring that is wearing bloodstained clothes too large to be his. The older ones lean forward a little more, but Fjord spares them no more than a cold gaze. Some of the younger ones whisper amongst themselves and wave as he passes, but he pays them, too, no mind as he enters the bigger of the cabins.  
  
He tells Tixhel (the other one had been sent to the healer for fixing) that he would like to be left alone with his “slave” for the night and that he would not hesitate to exact justice if anyone were to enter his cabin without asking first.  
  
He leaves without much of a response.  
  
Fjord looks over at Caleb as he sinks down into the mat that the dead orc had called his bed. Caleb watches him quietly, sitting on the far end of the room, knees tucked against his chest.  
  
“I'm sorry, Caleb,” Fjord says, keeping his voice soft and _Fjord_ rather than Azki.  
  
Caleb shakes his head after a few seconds of staring. “You did what you had to...”  
  
“You are small and vulnerable in this state, and even then I would not want you stuck

in an orc tribe.” Fjord shoves off his boots, then sighs as he realizes that he's in armor and clothes too human for it to help his case of being a blood-thirsty orc that hated human society. He'll deal with that in the morning. “We are lucky they didn't kill the both of us and eat us for dinner.”  
  
Caleb pulls out copper wire from his shirt, wrapping it around his fingers. “This is Caleb. _Code Gumdrop_.”  
  
Caleb waits for a response for minutes as they pass, but there is none that come. Fjord watches the disappointment cloud his face before he buries his face into his knees, his fists clenched into white balls. Stretched taut, then; his emotional defenses are down in this state.  
  
Fjord echoes the feeling of being pulled into too many pieces. “We'll find a way back. I'm sure that the crew's already looking for us. But while we're here, there are a few things you should keep in mind.”  
  
Caleb's face doesn't change from its blankness as Fjord tells him the conditions they are here under. He doesn't flinch when Fjord says 'slave' and doesn't wince when Fjord tells him the punishments for certain misdemeanors. He doesn't react when Fjord tells him his history, doesn't grow angry when Fjord calls him a cold name to practice their game of pretend, and doesn't hate Fjord by the end of it.  
  
It's surprising. Fjord doesn't know he'd expected it until Caleb proves that he doesn't, which is when the relief fills his chest.  
  
Fjord finds red rope in the drawers, and as he wraps it around Caleb's left wrist he does not make eye contact, keeping his focus on making sure the ropes are not too tight or too sloppy.  
  
It takes his shaking fingers a while before he can tie it, but he does.  
  
-  
  
It is only later that night, after dinner and after Fjord's on the verge of sleep, that he hears the quiet sniffling. The mat they share feels too big, the space between them looming, and Fjord's arms are empty.  
  
He wants to turn and comfort the boy.  
  
The scared, crying little boy.  
  
The boy carrying the weight of the pain of an adult man that was running from his past and heartbreak.  
  
The boy that got dragged into a mess that was all Fjord's fault.  
  
He doesn't, though. Because he _can't_.  
  
If he comforts Caleb now, if he holds him now, then he might make it seem like it's okay. And right now, the furthest thing from okay is showing weakness in front of an Orc. Right now, the worst thing Caleb can do is show his hand to people who want him dead.  
  
Right now, Caleb should know better than to cry in front of monsters with green skin and golden eyes like Fjord.  
  
-  
  
When morning comes, Fjord shrugs the human clothes off his back and rifles through the drawers for some animal skins to wear. The armor stays because he can defend that as a safety measure until he can find some new ones. _Stolen armor, straight from a human's dead body,_ he could say.  
  
Caleb is already awake by the time Fjord rises, practicing his spells in the corner of the room. He'd gotten a hand on some incense and charcoal, apparently, and had found some herbs in his pockets. Frumpkin is sitting in his lap, staring at Caleb as he cast and recast dancing lights in the cabin, moving them around with a blank expression.  
  
Fjord doesn't comment. Doesn't know what to say if he were to say anything about the situation. _Is your comfort animal back?_  
  
_How many times have you tried messaging Nott? How many times did you receive no answer?_  
  
_How many times have you considered running?_  
  
Too many questions he doesn't know how to ask, doesn't know how to word properly without them biting into weary hearts. He talks about something else instead. “We need breakfast, so I have to go out and see what they have, maybe find you something that fits you better than those rags. Do you want to stay here?”  
  
A nod.  
  
“Good. Don't leave the cabin.”  
  
With a heavy heart, Fjord sets out for some food, trying to ignore how fast Caleb's fallen into a state of complete submission, eyes sadder than even adult Caleb sported.  
  
He walks for a little over 10 minutes before he stops, seeing a stall open run by an older woman with a bit of a rounder middle and silver hair.  
  
“Ah a new face,” the woman says, smiling at him past her glasses. “Quite a handsome one, too. The name's Hilda, handsome. What's yours?”  
  
Fjord, flustered, smiles. “My name's Azki. A meal, please, Hilda.”  
  
Hilda hands him a tray full of meats, rice, and vegetables absentmindedly before she hands him a cup of ale that fits on the tray. “That'll run you 2 copper, pretty boy.”  
  
Fjord ignores the blush that spreads through his face and all the way to the tips of his ears. “Alright. And another tray, please. For my slave.”  
  
“Human?”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
Hilda gives him a curious look but doesn't ask, giving him a smaller tray with some chicken, bread, and a cup of water.  
  
“How many copper will that be?” Fjord asks, looking down at his coin purse.  
  
Hilda waves the question away, already busying herself with a different plate of food. “Free of charge. I don't charge the meals that slaves need. I don't think it's fair to make the masters pay for what they need for their slaves to survive. If I did, we'd be burying slaves by the dozen every fortnight.”  
  
It is a kindness. It's supposed to be kind. But the words _master_ and _slave_ still make a heavy weight settle in Fjord's bones. He forces a smile, forces it to reach his eyes. “Thanks.”  
  
The clothes are easier to come by, running him about 2 gold piece for Caleb's attire and 5 for his own. They are simple, but they will make do. The clothes that are for Caleb might be a bit warm and itchy on his skin, but it is all that they have. They'll deliver it to his cabin shortly, they say. Fjord pays and leaves, walking around the camp idly to make sure that the others know he is walking with his head held high. Nobody bothers him- he is still protected under the pending decision of their leader, after all, and to touch him or harm him is to step out of the line that they're toeing.  
  
When Fjord returns to his cabin, Caleb's eyes are red-rimmed and his hold on Frumpkin is tighter than would be healthy, were Frumpkin a normal cat. Fjord scans their cabin immediately, straining his ears for sounds of anyone else. “Did someone come in while I was gone?”  
  
Caleb shakes his head, pushing his hair out of his face.  
  
No. Of course not.  
  
Caleb would not be crying over something so simple. If someone intruded, a pile of ashes would be scattered around the room and that would be that. Caleb, even in this form, is not helpless.  
  
Not helpless, but hurting. Afraid. Confused.  
  
_Upset_.  
  
It does not matter if he is afraid or confused or hurt or angry. Children's emotions are rarely so distinct, all of the lines blurring until they all form a single state: upset.  
  
The emotions of toddlers are so much easier to label. But they are so much more difficult to quell once they take hold.  
  
Fjord is not qualified to deal with them. He hands Caleb his plate of food. “Do you want that or this one?” Caleb's eyes flicker between the two plates before settling on the chicken and bread, pulling them closer to him. Fjord takes his own plate and eats, thinking, thinking, thinking about the upcoming meeting with the leader.  
  
He's not injured, thankfully. The night took all of his pains and his wound from yesterday's goblins is already healing for the most part. It would be a lot better with Jester, but... He's no healer.  
  
He has his armor and his magic. And if he cannot fight or bargain his way out, he has his legs and his wits. He has enough to survive.  
  
He only hopes it is enough to keep his charge alive as well.  
  
-  
  
The leader is a woman standing at 7', easy, though she's not as muscular as Fjord half-expected. She is in her early thirties, maybe later. She's wearing robes reminiscent of acolytes, but stealing clothes from dead bodies is not unheard of. She has dark hair tied behind her and black eyes that follow Fjord's every move. Not a dimwitted barbarian, then.  
  
All these thoughts shoot through Fjord's mind the second he sees her. Judging by her eyes, similar thoughts flow through hers.  
  
_“You are the half-blooded orc that slew two of our own yesterday, then?”_ Silgra the True asks, a smile on her face, cold, analyzing.  
  
Fjord nods. _“I am. They came at us first and I defended myself and my property to the best of my ability. Your men died with a single blow.”_ He doesn't tell her what the blow was from, doesn't mention magic. He doesn't want to stand out too much, doesn't want her imploring eyes to brighten with the realization there might be something useful in him.  
  
Silgra waves a hand dismissively. _“Yes, Aldros and Imsh have always been too stupid to know when to run. I have other... concerns, however.”_ Her eyes flit over to the human dressed in orc clothes, then back over to Fjord. _“Your human. He knows orcish?”_  
  
_“No.”_  
  
Silgra takes that in for a few seconds, leaning back. _“Does he have parents? He is your slave and I acknowledge that, but he is young and I do not want humans driven by rage and need trying to tear my tribe apart to find one child. If his parents are alive, I want him dead.”_  
  
Fjord, if he were not so afraid that she would see through his ruse, would have laughed at that. Surprise colors his features though, and he shakes his head. _”His parents are dead, of course. I am not so stupid so as to leave parents living while I take a child.”_  
  
Someone made that mistake with him once, after all. Fjord's mother, a human, died by a blade and Fjord, covered in her blood, had made an oath to the heavens he would have his revenge. And when he

had, when he was buried knee-deep in gore and rage and regret, something in his stomach turned into steel.  
  
Red washes into black quickly enough.  
  
She takes that with a nod, silent and thinking for a few seconds as she surveys them. Fjord doesn't flinch or move, staring back at her with equal intensity.  
  
She speaks before he does. _“Give me time with him.”_  
  
The falchion is in Fjord's hands before he can think it through. Her face doesn't change, still staring at him with the same casual ferocity. Fjord grits his teeth. _Two exits. The one behind me leads to the village. It'll be too hard to run free. Too many obstacles. Will be apprehended quickly. The one to the right leads to an alley. Abandoned. Easier to hide. Harder to navigate. Might be a dead end._  
  
She raises her hands. _“I will do him no harm. You have my word. In Gruumsh's name.”_  
  
That... has weight. A meaningful vow made in front of a room of people who all worship the same god. That is something that Fjord can hold onto, use as leverage later on. All orcs fear Gruumsh's wrath, that is no secret. To make an oath in his name...  
  
Fjord jerks his head. “Fine. But if you harm him...” The promise of death does not need to be said. He gives Caleb a look, whispers in his ear about what's going on in Common, and lets two of the other orcs lead him outside.  
  
He waits. There is no other choice but to wait. A minute passes, then two, and he grows restless, wondering what she wants with a human child like him. She promised not to harm him, but she could be doing things that don't require a knife or even any physical contact. She could be trying to get information out of him. Using magic on him. She could be asking him about his parents, which is a trickier mountain to climb because Fjord is also in the dark about that one.  
  
All Fjord can hope for is that they won't be running with a burning tribe behind them.  
  
_“Half-breed,”_ the guard calls Fjord from his thoughts, gesturing to the cabin. _“You can come in now.”_  
  
The sight that greets Fjord is not one of the things he'd prepared himself for. Caleb is sitting on Silgra's lap and Silgra is making four balls of light float around the room, making them form shapes of different creatures. A small smile pulls at Caleb's lips as he watches, also making his own dancing lights float around the room. Silgra laughs in surprise but doesn't say anything.  
  
Her eyes change when she sees Fjord. They grow colder. _"Ah. Azki. Your human, I approve of him. Doesn't speak much of Common, but he's quite a talker.”_ On cue, Caleb chooses that moment to speak in Zemnian like a babbling child- a phrase that Fjord _knows_ is not polite.  
  
She dismisses the lights, placing Caleb down onto the ground and gently pushing him back towards Fjord. _"What are your skills, then? You killed a farmer and a hunter- both useful but not enough to make them inexpendable.”_  
  
“I can hunt or work whatever jobs need to be filled. As long as my property is left undisturbed,” he says, looking to Caleb meaningfully.  
  
A hand extends to him. Unmarred, which is strange for an orc leader. Anyone who's spent time with an orc usually ends up with a scar or two. Fjord doesn't comment on it, though, filing it away for later. He takes her hand and goes on his way, tugging on the red rope attached to Caleb's wrist to guide him along like he's a cow or some other animal.  
  
The people are less secretive about their glances now, surprised that he's alive and staying, but not angry over it for the time being.  
  
They are safe.  
  
Hilda sees him pass and beckons him over. “Ah, is this the human of yours?” she asks in surprisingly good Common, eyeing Caleb. Fjord nods, trying to use his unimposing figure to protect Caleb much as he can without it being obvious, but Hilda doesn't seem to care. “Ah, a cute one, too. He's tiny. Is he a baby?”  
  
Caleb chokes beside Fjord, his face burning up to his ears. Fjord shrugs. “Young, certainly. But he's old enough to do what needs be done.”  
  
Hilda's nose scrunches at that, ever so slightly. “Aye, but... It feels odd to have a young one for a slave. What can it do, except cry?” A look crosses her face, gone before Fjord could decipher it. “Unless if you are... _into_ that, of course.”  
  
Fjord shakes his head quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes change from well-masked suspicion into something else. “He's not for bedding. He's a trophy from- from a battle I won, nothing more.”  
  
Hilda is silent, but she puts up a finger and digs something out from her stall, handing it to Fjord. It's an apple, which is rare around these parts, shiny red and clean. “For the little one. Humans need different things in their diet, you know. Try not to kill him yet. It would be... a _shame_. I don't want the weak little thing to get hurt before he is... useful.”  
  
A look is given to him, meaningful but subtle, as if Hilda was trying to figure out if the words would fly over his head.  
  
It's an offer of help, a hand being extended to him and the child that she suspects to be more than a prize, more than a slave. It's a promise of lips being sealed shut and eyes being averted. A promise of an open home and an aiding friend.  
  
“Thank you,” Fjord finds himself saying, pocketing the apple before anyone grows suspicious. “You have a good day now, Hilda.”  
  
Hilda smiles but says nothing.

 


	2. Beauty Lays Beyond the Hills

He is out with Caleb when it happens for the first time.   
  
The club hits him in the back of the head before he knows it is coming. His mind explodes in a burst of color, his senses freezing as he tries to take stock of the situation.   
  
Ground underneath his chest, sand and dust filling his nose. Sounds of an uproar, people watching their every move. Slick blood flowing down his head, down his back, down onto the dirt.   
  
A shadow looms over him.  
  
Fjord meets the eyes of his attacker with a growl, his hands clenching into fists.   
  
He pushes himself to his feet, doesn't let his hand tremble as he tackles the man.   
  
He cannot run from this, so he lets the song of war in his blood push him forward instead, lets his instinct take over as he _roars_ loud enough that everything else is silenced in his head.   
  
A fire fills his veins as his sight is hazed in crimson and he lets everything go.  
  
He tears into the orc, _rips_ into him, and there is blood everywhere as he punches, kicks, and he claws at him-  
  
 _He filed his claws down, but the beast inside has its own pair-_  
  
And he opens his eyes later, his fists raw and angry, blood covering his clothes and skin.   
  
He is still screaming, insults and threats hurled at the battered mess of a man in front of him. The people are screaming with him, their voices chanting his name, cheering him on, _praising_ him for a battle well-fought.  
  
But Caleb's eyes are wide, afraid, watching Fjord like he's never seen him before in his life. Fjord reaches for him with a bruised hand and Caleb flinches back as if he's about to be struck.  
  
The fire inside of Fjord's chest dims, dies down, and he's left with the taste of the lies he's told and he chokes on the blood dripping down the back of his throat.  
  
  
-  
  
Fjord takes the larger cabin for his own and rummages through the second one idly. There isn't much for him to take- some furs, a pickaxe, some farming items, and a few bits of gold. He takes all of it and takes it to the larger cabin, redesigning it enough to make it feel less constricting.   
  
If Caleb notices his hands shaking, he says nothing. If Fjord feels his entire body vibrating with agitation, he does not pay mind to it as he rips down trophies from the walls and puts up his own designs.  
  
It takes him a while, longer than it should, really, but he does it. He falls against the mat and stares at his handiwork with an empty gaze, trying to make the quivering little thing in his chest calm down. Caleb moves closer to him slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder with a silent question.   
  
“We have to get out of here,” Fjord says. “I don't like what this place is doing to us. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Caleb, I'm sorry, _imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry_ -”  
  
A scared little half-breed.  
  
A man too broken to run.  
  
A monster with hands stained in his own damnation.  
  
Caleb's arms are tight around him, trembling. They are full of absolution and forgiveness that Fjord does not deserve. Fjord holds him this time, tight. He keeps his eyes on the door, hoping that they would give him peace, at least for another day as he tries to think of another plan, but there is nothing he can do right now without causing suspicion in the others.  
  
Caleb's skin is cold under Fjord's hand. _That_ is something he can do something about. He lights a fire and puts some water in the pot for a bath that they both need. Caleb says nothing throughout it all, and Fjord says nothing about the wet patch on his shirt either. He murmurs softly, an old orcish lullaby that his father sang to him when he was a cub, and Caleb sleeps in his arms.  
  
The water boils. He sets Caleb down on the mat and takes his bath, then gathers a small cloth to wipe the blood from Caleb's body with. The hair is harder to wash without rousing the boy, but he manages to wipe him clean and dress him in the clothes that were made for colder weather.  
  
If Beau was here, she would comment on the clothes and how horrible they looked, he was sure. If Nott were here, Caleb wouldn't be twitching in his sleep and crying so much. If Yasha was here, they would probably be considered worthy of fear and respect and they would walk right out of this place with the orcs flinching away from the sight of them.  
  
But instead, Fjord is here, alone, afraid, desperate to hold onto the hope of tomorrow.  
  
-  
  
If Caleb screams out at night for someone that isn't there in a language Fjord doesn't quite understand, Fjord does not comment on it.   
  
If Caleb begs for mercy in a tongue that Fjord _does_ understand... Well... Fjord has heard worse things. The chills that cover his arms are from the cold, nothing more. His stomach does not churn from the sounds of a child begging with demons in his mind. It is normal, in this world, for children to be afraid of things. It is _fine_. Fjord does not _care._  
  
If Caleb screams out Nott's name, then Molly's name, then really, that is also none of Fjord's business. It is not Caleb's fault he seeks comfort that Fjord does not have the capacity to give. It is not Caleb's fault that his mind dangles in front of him what he cannot have at the moment.   
  
Even so, Fjord takes Caleb into his arms and puts his back to the door, trying to shield Caleb from whatever dark things might come in the night. It is the least he can do. He cannot take the world from Caleb's shoulders, cannot carry the sun into the sky so they would not be so cold, cannot ease the heartache and fear from Caleb's eyes.   
  
He cannot keep the tears that carve paths down Caleb's porcelain face from falling.   
  
Cannot keep Caleb from staring at Fjord the way that the other slaves in the camp stare at Fjord when he walks by, with resigned fear and empty eyes, minds full of static and hearts full of barbed wire.  
  
But he _can_ hold Caleb.   
  
He can keep him warm.  
  
It is enough. For now.   
  
It _has_ to be enough for now.  
-  
  
Taxhil wakes Fjord at the asscrack of dawn, poking him with a javelin. In his arms, Caleb sleeps on, hands bunched around Fjord's shirt loosely.   
  
Taxhil looks at them and gives Fjord a small grin that Fjord hates immediately. _“Have a fun night?”_  
  
The growl that leaves Fjord's lips is not one he has to put effort into. _“What I do with my nights is not your business.”_  
  
Taxil, still grinning, raises his hands in false-placation. _”The hunting party will set out soon. You have been asked to come. I'm certain that your “slave” will also need the furs and some extra meat in his meals, so you should come. Though, if you don't and he dies, I'd appreciate his bones as decoration for my cabin, if you wouldn't mind.”_  
  
Fjord snarls, but he notes the cold skin under his hands and he decides that the bastard might be onto something. _“I will join you outside. Give me some time to prepare myself.”_  
  
Taxhil nods and leaves him with another grin. Fjord places Caleb on the mat and gently nudges him awake, hating the way that Caleb jerks under his hand and his eyes shoot wide open with panic. Fjord doesn't want to leave him alone though, which opens up only one other choice.  
  
“Fjord?” Caleb asks, dreary with sleep, his shoulders shaking from the cold.  
  
Fjord lets the name slide this time. “I'm taking you to Hilda. She will watch over you.”  
  
The sleep leaves Caleb's face and he sits up straighter. “You are leaving?” There's another question there, under his words, but Fjord cannot grasp it, mind still focused on his armor he's tightening around himself.  
  
“Yes. It's the best option we have. Hilda will make sure you are fed and she won't hurt you. Just be sure to do what she asks and what the others ask and you will be fine.”   
  
He doesn't notice Caleb's wet, fearful eyes.   
  
He pulls Caleb to his chest and walks him over to Hilda's cabin, which is close enough to them, thankfully. The smell of spices greet him when he enters, various trinkets lining the walls as well as a few books filed under a lamp.   
  
“Azki?” Hilda asks, pulling on her glasses as she puts her quill down and faces him. She looks at the bundle in Fjord's arms and understanding fills her eyes. “Place him on the mat to rest. It is early still. I will watch over him.”  
  
Fjord gives her thanks and hands her a gold piece- he'd found it in Imsh's cabin- and leaves. He misses the way Caleb's eyes stare after him long after he'd gone, or the way that those same eyes spilled over with tears as he laid as still as he could on the mat, facing away from the strange woman.  
  
The hunting party is composed of about 7 able-bodied people, so they break off into groups of 4. Fjord is grouped with 3 others, all of whom looked physically unimposing. They are the weaker bunch, most definitely, but Fjord finds that he doesn't care. He is a half-breed and even though he's slain 2 orcs, he still has to prove his rank.  
  
And these 3 are the ones setting the bar.  
  
It should be easy enough.

  
-  
  
Someone challenges Fjord again, this time an arrow that comes from nowhere, but Fjord knows it is someone from the superior hunting party.   
  
It is easy to summon the falchion, this time.   
  
He does not black out, this time.  
  
He remembers the way the man goes limp in his hands, this time.  
  
He throws the man's unconscious body in the middle of the camp to serve as a reminder to everyone not to challenge him further. People's eyes follow him as he begins to walk back to where the hunting party waits for him to return.  
  
-  
  
When Fjord returns to camp, he is sweat-soaked, blood-stained, and tired. It is late into the afternoon when he finally walks over to his cabin and lays down the furs from his prize. He'd fought two fucking bears. Alone. As the other three stood by and watched, fiddling with their weapons and staring at each other as if to ask should we help?  
  
They didn't.  
  
Of course they didn't. _Spineless fucking useless sacks of flesh. A fucking waste of orc blood-_  
  
Fjord's mind stops, stutters, and a cold hand clutches at his chest. Those words are not his own. Those thoughts are not his.  
  
They are his father's.  
  
 _They are young_ , he thinks to himself, trying to wash away the previous thoughts with something else. _They were probably afraid. It was a test for me, and they did their part._  
  
 _They are young. It shouldn't be a young one's job to kill._  
  
The thoughts, if possible, make his tongue even more bitter than before. They feel false, too desperate to be genuine. They're nothing but a sad attempt to wash down the previous thoughts with something “kinder”, something more human.  
  
The walk to Hilda's cabin feels longer to his tired legs, but he makes it. He doesn't knock, opening the door and walking in, too tired for politeness and etiquette. He'd just killed two beasts, he should be granted a little leniency on the whole manners thing.  
  
The sight that greets him when he enters the sitting quarters baffles him for a second, all the tiredness making his mind go blank as he stares. Hilda has Caleb in his arms, feeding him with something from what resembles a baby bottle, desperation on her face as she whispers to him in common. Frumpkin watches this with her tail flicking to and fro, pacing as she assesses Caleb with more awareness behind her eyes than Fjord's ever seen.  
  
Her eyes shoot up to meet Fjord's. “You are here. _Finally_. He's been crying about you all day. I couldn't convince him you would return.”  
  
Oh.  
  
 _“You are leaving?”_  
  
Well, that's...  
  
 _"Yes. It's the best option we have. Hilda will make sure you are fed and she won't hurt you. Just be sure to do what she asks and what the others ask and you will be fine.”_   
  
_Oh._  
  
“What're you giving him?” A simpler conversation. Hilda doesn't miss it, but she doesn't comment on it either.  
  
“A potion. He's sick. He's been trembling all day since he woke, fluctuating between hot and cold. A fever, I think. Youngins can't survive without their parents for long, usually, and these winters aren't exactly merciful.”  
  
The cold skin. The trembling.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Who can fix him?”  
  
Hilda's eyes fix on him for a few long seconds, sympathetic, sad. “If you intend on keeping him here, there is no fix to be found. He will be an unmarked grave. You have to get him out of here and find him someone who can cure him. These potions will only stave off the inevitable. They weren't made with humans in mind.”  
  
Fjord looks at Caleb. Pale lips and a sickly tone of skin stare back at him, more glaring than shed blood. He trembles every so often, even in sleep.   
  
“They-” Fjord clears his throat, trying to get rid of the thickness lodged there. “They will kill us if we run. If we leave...”  
  
Hilda's eyebrows stitch together, sighing. “Make something up. Say you want to continue your conquests, say you have had dreams of Gruumsh, say _anything_ if you want this boy alive.”   
  
She hands Caleb over to Fjord. _Too thin, bony, weak. One blow and he'd die._  
  
 _Injured humans are easy kills,_ Fjord's father had said to him once. _And the young are even easier._  
  
Fjord takes Caleb back to his cabin, hoping against hope that they have enough time.  
  
-  
  
There isn't much they can do. Fjord can approach Silgra and hope for mercy, run during the night, or try to see if Caleb's fever will go away on its own. But as the minutes without a cure pass by, Fjord starts to lose hope in the latter. Caleb's entire body is covered in a thick sheen of sweat, but even so, he trembles almost ceaselessly. No amount of furs seems to warm him, and even if they did, his skin is hotter than a boiling kettle.  
  
Fjord is no healer.   
  
He can only wipe down Caleb's body with a cloth and hope that the cold from it is enough to push the fever away.   
  
After two hours of waiting, the restlessness wins out. But they cannot run. The ones on watch duty have their crossbows and battleaxes prepared.   
  
There are five of them. Too many for Fjord to take alone. So he walks instead.  
  
Silgra's cabin is unmanned by others during the night, apparently, which makes it easier for Fjord. He knocks and waits, steeling his back and eyes, preparing to bargain without making it obvious he was begging.   
  
_Demand_.  
  
What he's going to do is _demand_. That is what he tells himself.  
  
Silgra opens the door to her cabin after a minute, dressed in dark robes made for sleeping, and she squints at him for a second before her expression clears. _“Blood-born. I do not like night-wanderers. Why are you here?”_  
  
Fjord meets her eyes intensely, as if he's not afraid and not panicking over the idea of Caleb dying in an orc tribe, not by a blade but by a sickness that cannot be fixed. _“I wish to leave.”_  
  
 _“Leave?”_ she murmurs thoughtfully, moving back to let him enter. The warmth of the burning fire greets Fjord immediately, a slap in the face as much as it is an embrace. The door clicks shut behind him. Footsteps go further away from him before Silgra walks in front of him, gesturing for him to take a seat on the chair that Fjord didn't even notice. _“Explain. Where are you going? Has our tribe not given you enough?”_  
  
There is an abyss here, under the tightrope that Fjord's walking on.  
  
He has a choice here.  
  
Lie or tell the truth.  
  
Use his words to convince or spin himself another tale.  
  
Be Fjord or Azki.  
  
 _“My-”_ The word _slave_ crams in his throat, squeezes, tightens his airways. He coughs. _“My human. He is ill. I seek to find him a cure, as well as continue my journey, spread my name.”_  
  
It is not wholly false. There are seeds of secrets under the words, but when is there not?  
  
She says nothing for a long time. It makes Fjord anxious. Silence means secrets, means lies, means disappointment, means feet on a precipice and an open maw below, means-  
  
“Your human. He is more than a slave, isn't he?”   
  
There it is, then.  
  
His heart races like a rabbit. Fast, fast, fast, unrelenting. He can feel sweat dripping down his back, hidden under furs that he bought to keep this charade alive. “Yes.”  
  
Silgra smiles at him then and looks out the window. “Yes, I suspected so.” Outside, far away, a wolf howls, loud and keening. “His magic is strong, that one. It would be a shame if he were dead.”  
  
Fjord doesn't speak. Doesn't know what he would say if he were to speak. Doesn't know if he's allowed to or if he's meant to listen.  
  
She seems to settle on a decision though, and she slaps her knees with the palms of her hands. “Okay.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
She nods. “Okay. I will tell the others I gave you my permission and not to harm you, should you cross paths with us again. If your human lives, tell him that he has another name.” She leans forward like she's telling a secret, her black and silver hair falling into her face. _“Call him Takoda. A friend to all.”_  
  
This is...  
  
This is more than Fjord could have asked for, more than he could have expected. The coil in his stomach unravels and he dares to breathe again.   
  
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it. He switches to his native tongue, repeats it.  _“Thank you.”_  
  
-  
  
They leave on a horse that Fjord gets from Hilda in exchange for some of his furs. Fjord leaves, dressed in his human clothes and armor, and he pushes the horse into running as fast as it can.   
  
They don't have a lot of time, not with Caleb murmuring deliriously in Zemnian. The words are disjointed, voice slow as if the thoughts in Caleb's mind have to flow through molasses before they can be said out loud. “Ich habe eine Katze... Fjord? Du trinkst Milch?” Caleb presses a finger to the horse's mane, letting his fingers run through the hair. “Tired... So tired, Fjord.”  
  
The same words he's said for the last few hours. “We're almost there.”  
  
“Wanna sleep. Can we sleep first, Fjord?”  
  
“No. Don't sleep yet, kid. We have to get you to Jester first so she can see what's wrong with you. Then you can sleep.”  
  
Caleb groans. “Are we almost there yet?”  
  
“Yeah, just a little bit more. You're okay. You'll be okay.” The same words he'd said for the past few hours. He only hopes that the world doesn't make a liar out of him just to prove a point. 

Caleb slumps against Fjord's chest anyway, so Fjord pushes the horse to go faster still. The sun rises behind them, slowly like the yawning of the universe. They are not yet dead and that in and of itself is a miracle that Fjord did not fully expect. In the distance, he sees it. When he hears Nott's voice, he nearly wants to cry from relief. They are close.

“ _Do you need help? You can reply to this message.”_

“ _We're almost home. Tell the others that we're almost there.”_

The sun breaks apart the darkness of night, spilling light throughout the village.

-

The day begins like a lung inhaling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't @ me. I'm sleep deprived

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first dabble in this fandom. Naturally, it's angst because... I am Me


End file.
